To make myself feel better, I thought I might get my eyebrows threaded at lunch. I go to this place a few blocks away from my office, and they’re pretty nice there. One time, when I hadn’t been going there long, they talked me into getting my mustache done as well. Bear in mine that I have about 12 teeny little golden hairs on my lip, but they way they talked about it, it could have been a handlebar mustache, complete with waxed tips. Shame-as-upsell. Vogue has nothing on these ladies.

Anyway, I fell for it once, and then spent a week with this freakish bare upper lip that was way more obvious than any 12 golden hairs could be, so I decided never to do that again. Sensing this, the ladies didn’t suggest it.

Today, however, there was a new threader who hadn’t gotten the memo. After she did my eyebrows, she said, “Anything else?”

And I said, “No thanks.”

“No?”

“No. Thanks.”

And then she – swear to God – ran her finger over my lip, as if stroking my long, luxurious mustache hairs and said: “NOT EVEN THIS?”

Like this:

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6 thoughts on “Frida Hublo”

sorry for the neurosis, smash. I didn’t mean any harm, I’ve been been a fan since The Black Table. If it makes you feel any better,I’m sure the tiny things that live in your mustache will kill and eat the baby spiders shortly after they hatch, before the infant spiderlings can reach the relative safety of your warm nostrils.